Feelings

Peter didn't feel like talking, he didn't feel like walking, he didn't feel like caring, he didn't even feel like breathing. He felt like disappearing, vanishing into the ground, to be stepped on by the rest of the world. All he could do was think, and think, imagining ways to die, to crawl into his cave that he calls his mind and never coming out. He felt like taking a plane to Alaska and standing naked until he was frozen stiff. He felt like wearing steel boots and jumping off a boat into Davie Jones' locker. He felt like slitting both his forearms upwards and watching all his blood pour out onto the ground. He felt like lighting a forest on fire and standing in the center of it until he disintegrated to ash along with the trees. He felt like driving his car off the San Francisco bridge while blasting his favorite song. He felt like threatining a police officer, and pretend to be pulling out a gun from the back of his pants. He felt like taking a hammer and hitting his feet onto a bed of nails, collapsing onto the bed face first. He felt like climbing the Empire State Building and free falling to the ground. He felt like standing in the middle of a hurricane, waiting to be struck by lightning, and if the Lightning never hit, he would've surely died from a loose electric cable. He felt like grabbing a razor and slitting his throat, looking at himself in the mirror as he watched his head dangle to one side as the blood gushed out. He didn't want to feel anymore, feelings sucked, hope sucked, joy sucked. He doesn't even know why he thought he could be happy. He felt like tying a rope to the tree by the river, putting it around his neck and jumping, as if diving into the water, except he would never reach the water, the water was only a symbol, a symbol of hope, hope that he could never feel.